


Drafted

by Anyawen



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Don't copy to another site, Gen, friends who help you move are true friends, perfunctory complaints, pressed into service
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-07
Updated: 2020-08-07
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:15:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25761205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anyawen/pseuds/Anyawen
Summary: Helping Sherlock Holmes move house was not what he'd had in mind.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & Greg Lestrade
Comments: 27
Kudos: 76





	Drafted

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was born to answer the question of how Lestrade knew to find Sherlock at the new flat on Baker Street the same day he'd just moved in.

Lestrade wedged the last box of books into position and closed the boot of his car, straightening with a groan. Through the rear window he caught sight of Sherlock leaning across the back seat to buckle in the box that contained his microscope. Lestrade had no idea how he'd gotten roped into this.

He'd shown up at Sherlock's flat on Montague with a bag of takeaway Chinese and a six pack of beer, hoping that the offering would somehow make the 'consulting detective' receptive to his message. He liked the mad bugger, and he was dead useful in solving cases, but making fools of his team during a very public press conference was not going to win him any points. It would only make them less willing to work with him, if that were possible.

Lestrade had known as he'd kicked the car door closed behind him that Sherlock wouldn't listen, but he couldn't _not_ try. And if he got nothing but a headache for his troubles, at least he had beer.

He didn’t bother with the lift —it had never worked— climbed two flights of stairs and walked to the second door on the left. Shifting the bag of takeaway to dangle uncomfortably off the fingers of the hand holding the beer, Lestrade had given the door in front of him a couple solid thumps. The doorbell had been out for ages —Lestrade was almost certain Sherlock had broken it himself— and the consulting detective was often so wrapped up in his experiments that he wouldn't hear a more polite knock.

Lestrade stepped back in surprise when the door was yanked wide open almost before he'd finished knocking. Sherlock stood in the doorway looking a bit disheveled, his face creased in an amazingly creepy grin. He watched as Sherlock's eyes flicked down to the bag and six-pack in his hands and his expression faded to disappointment.

“Not here about the case, then.”

“There is no case, Sherlock. They're suicides.”

“Nope,” Sherlock replied, popping the 'p'. “Come in, then. You can make yourself useful,” he said, turning away and leaving the door open for Lestrade to enter.

Lestrade followed him in, pausing to shoulder the door closed behind him before he stopped short, staring at the piles of boxes stacked around the room.

“Are you … moving?”

“Your deductive skills are coming right along,” Sherlock replied. “You can start with those,” he said, indicating a trio of boxes near the kitchen table. “We'll have to make at least two trips, I think, given the cargo capacity of your car.”

Lestrade put the beer and the takeaway on the table and turned around, surveying the flat.

It was small. Just one room with a half wall to separate the kitchen from the combined living space and bedroom, and a bathroom the size of a broom closet. The kitchen had been primarily used as a lab, the table covered with petri dishes and slides every time Lestrade had stopped by. He wasn't sure Sherlock had eaten in there even once. Certainly he'd never cooked there. The living space held a couch, a coffee table, a wardrobe, and bookcases, which were now empty.

“Have you been evicted? Again?”

“No. And that last time was not my fault.”

“I'm sure it wasn't,” Lestrade said, amused by Sherlock's petulant tone. “Go on then,” he said, reaching for a beer and cracking it open, “tell me. Why are you moving?”

“Tourists.”

Lestrade snorted a laugh. He took a pull of the beer, leaning against the worktop and watching as the consulting detective continued to pack his belongings into boxes.

“It's London, mate. Tourists are everywhere.”

“They are a scourge.”

“But they're not why you're moving,” Lestrade said, passing Sherlock a roll of packing tape.

“I ran into an old client. She has a vacancy. Offered me a deal on the rent.”

“Whereabouts?”

“Baker Street,” Sherlock replied, standing and lifting the box he'd just packed. “Why are you just standing there? Grab a box.”

Lestrade had been torn between amusement and annoyance as he picked up a box of books – Christ it was heavy – and followed the other man out of the flat and down the stairs.

It had taken three trips, over nearly five hours, in the end. After Lestrade had closed the boot and watched Sherlock buckle the last of the glassware into the back seat, he'd followed him back upstairs for a last check that they'd left nothing behind. Sherlock found a bottle of hair product lingering in the bathroom, and a bucket of dirt under the kitchen sink. Lestrade found the bags of takeaway and the six pack of beer on the kitchen table. The beer was warm, and the food a stone-cold, congealed mess. Lestrade sighed in disgust at the sight, and his stomach rumbled.

“You know I came over here to read you the riot act,” he said, tossing the cold takeaway in the bin.

“You menaced me with sub-par Chinese food. I shall consider myself thoroughly chastised and promise never to group text the whole press conference again. Until you get something wrong. Again.”

“Prat.”

“Come on. There's a decent Thai place on the way that should still be open. You can get dinner and drop me off.”

“ _You_ can get _me_ dinner,” Lestrade retorted. “Least you can do for helping you move.”

Sherlock didn't argue as he picked up the hair product and the bucket of dirt and exited the flat. Lestrade counted that as a win.


End file.
